


like the press of acid at the back of your throat

by HirilElfwraith



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, this is what happens when you kill someone's family and then adopt them maglor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HirilElfwraith/pseuds/HirilElfwraith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The intersection of the Kinslayer and the foster-father is hard to accept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like the press of acid at the back of your throat

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the amazing [perplexingly's](perplexingly.tumblr.com) gorgeous artwork. I got permission to insert it in the main text as an illustration, but definitely go [reblog it here!](http://perplexingly.tumblr.com/post/127410293900/talking-with-sath-yesterday-made-me-want-to-draw)
> 
> Maglor and Elrond's relationship is so weird and intriguing -- Maglor raised Elrond and Elros, but he only did it because he and Maedhros killed or drove off like their entire family. That can't be an easy thing to reconcile.

“I could do it,” Elrond says, and his voice is almost steady.

“You could,” Maglor agrees calmly, glancing back, and there is not even a hint of a tremor in that musical voice. His expression is unamused, but unconcerned. 

“I _could,”_ Elrond says again, sharper. Behind him, Elros’s breath hitches. Elrond doesn’t need to see him to know that his twin is worrying his lower lip with a finger, grey eyes wide and upset. With his left hand, he squeezes Elros’s shaking fingers, tangled with his. His palms are slippery with sweat, and he cannot keep his hands from trembling. The point of the hunting knife digs deeper into Maglor’s throat, and blood beads around the gleaming metal.

Maglor is sitting back on his heels, perfectly still, head turned to regard his foster-sons. He breathes normally. His back is straight, but not rigid. His hands _(the hands that rocked Elrond and Elros to sleep, that fed them, that bathed them, that brushed away their tears; the hands that slaughtered every remaining member of their family except for their absent parents)_ are folded loosely in his lap. 

Elrond’s hand shakes. The bead of blood slides, ever so slowly, down Maglor’s neck, tracing a brilliant red trail until at last it seeps into his collar, staining the green fabric black. 

He takes a deep breath. Elros stifles a sob. His grip on the knife tightens. 

He lowers his hand to his side, and the knife falls from nerveless fingers to clatter harmlessly on the ground. 

Maglor stands smoothly, brushing the dirt from his knees as he turns to face them. His face is grave, as usual, but not angry. “Maedhros should be back from hunting soon,” is all he says, as though nothing has happened, and it is all Elrond can do to nod. Elros tugs on his hand, and they turn to flee.  
“Elrond,” Maglor calls, and he freezes. 

Footsteps approach as Maglor comes up behind him. “You dropped this,” Maglor says, and holds the knife out to Elrond, hilt first. 

Elrond takes it, numbly, automatically, and Maglor’s fatherly, Kinslaying hands gently smooth his hair before he strides away. 

The blade’s tip still glistens red with Maglor’s blood.


End file.
